Last Stand
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Mandrea Season 3 AU, oneshot. They were probably going to die. It wasn't so much about escape as it was about the last feeling they'd ever have. Merle/Andrea. Rated M for Merle.


**AN: This was absolutely just for entertainment value. It's a bit of a "what if" scenario. It's AU for season three.**

 **I own nothing from the show.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"Why didn't you and I ever hook up?" Merle asked.

He'd asked her that before, but this time it was with more sincerity. This time—it wasn't as much with the intention of simply seeing if it would strike a chord with her. This time it was to actually have a genuine answer.

Andrea lifted her head only slightly from where it was hung. She looked at him. Even from the distance of the room between them, and even in the semi-darkness, Merle could tell that her eyes were wet. It was probably from pain, but Merle wasn't sure how much it had to do with the cut that was rudimentarily stitched closed on her forehead and with the other injuries that were hidden from sight, and how much it had to do with the other pain—the betrayal. Betrayal, these days, seemed like a constant for everyone. Or, at least, it was for them.

She dropped her head again and shook it, but she didn't say anything.

Merle worked his way, half crawling, across the floor in her direction. He didn't feel like getting up. There was no need to put more energy into it than he absolutely had to. What was she going to do? Tell somebody he'd shuffled his away across the floor? They weren't making it out of here alive—the Governor would see to that.

It didn't matter, either. Merle didn't exactly have too damn much to live for. He doubted Andrea did either. Both of them? Now? They were the worst kind of outcasts they could be. A puppet and a whore to the devil himself.

That was the tricky thing about the devil, though. His disguises were pretty damn good when he wanted them to be.

"Hey—are you fuckin' crying?" Merle asked. He couldn't muster up the bite behind the words that he wanted to find though. He couldn't be as harsh as he wanted. The way that they came out, the words would do nothing to snap her out of the mood she was in. They carried too much evidence of that very same mood in Merle.

Andrea sniffed, but she shook her head.

Merle finished the shuffling around the space and ended up by her side. It was the closest that he'd ever been to her. His body touched hers, his left side against her right. Maybe it was the situation or maybe it was the moment, but it was a different feeling than he usually had when he was this close to a woman.

He refused to believe that it was the woman, herself, who had a single thing to do with it.

"Get your fuckin' shit together," Merle said. "If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a crying woman. And if there's one thing I can't stand more'n that, it's a woman crying who wouldn't have let her ass be thrown down in the damn dirt before."

Andrea made a noise. It was a laugh. It was a small, quick, and immediately fading burst of laughter. But Merle heard it, and he chuckled to himself at the simple fact that he'd been able to bring about such a sound in such an unlikely place.

She sniffed again.

"I was so— _stupid_ ," she said.

"You're blonde," Merle said.

She turned her head at toward him then and glared at him out of the corner of her eyes, but he could see something playing at her lips. Some hint of a smile was there. Somehow, he had the ability to make her smile—even without trying. He didn't try to suppress his own smile.

"People just expect that shit," he said, giving in and laughing quietly at his own joke.

She elbowed him, but not hard. It was the same kind of reaction he might have expected if they'd been in a school yard and he'd pulled her hair to try to get her attention. She smiled when he chuckled and faked that the pretended blow had been damaging.

They weren't in a school yard. They were in a metal barn near the back part of Woodbury. The barn, clumped together with several others, had been brought in for storage. As long as Merle had been in Woodbury, the barns had been there and nothing, as far as he knew, had ever been stored in a single one of them. Of course, that was before the Governor decided to spill everything to him—just a few hours before—because he figured that Merle wasn't getting out of the place alive. Nobody else ever had.

Nobody could hear them scream out here. It would echo around in the tight metal space until it deafened them both, but it wouldn't reach the ears of anyone that could help them. It was doubtful, too, that even if it did reach someone's ears they'd be helped at all. It would get played off as some other sound in a world full of horrible sounds. It would get played off as something coming from outside the walls. Now Merle knew that so many times when they'd thought it might have been some group meeting with a hard time of things, it was more than likely someone who had found their final stop in one of the metal hell houses.

And, more than likely, even if someone knew they were there, they wouldn't help them. After all, helping them might very well land them in the same predicament.

"You know why we didn't never hook up?" Merle said, musing to himself.

Andrea hummed.

"Because you called me a carpet muncher?" Merle asked.

"Weren't you?" He challenged.

Andrea didn't say anything. She didn't have to. He could read her well enough to know exactly what the hell had happened between her and Michonne. It wasn't that big of a secret to anyone with eyes and an ounce of common sense. He'd suspected it from the moment they'd dragged the women in—the way that Michonne hovered so damn close to Andrea and seemed to want to gut anyone who got near her—but he'd been sure of it the day that he'd witnessed their public break-up right in the middle of town.

"No," Merle said, continuing on with his own train of thought. "We didn't never hook up because you always thought your ass was too damn good for me. Too damn good for ole Merle."

He chuckled to himself.

"Whole lotta better choices out there, ain't there?" Merle mused. "Especially now."

"You aren't exactly very charming," Andrea said.

Merle hummed at her, half in question and half in amusement.

"You're loud," Andrea said. "You're—rude. You're an asshole. You're racist and you're sexist and—you're a—a pig."

Merle chuckled to himself.

"You flatter my ass," he responded. "And you're bitchy and you're moody and you're a damn know it all that thinks you're the only one got this shit figured out. But—by my figuring? We're in the same damn barn, Blondie. And when the damn Governor comes back? You're going in the same damn hole as I am."

Her expression changed. For a moment she just had the shocked look that she might have gotten if he'd slapped her across the face. Then her face started to twist again and he realized that she was going right back to the crying she'd stopped. She had nowhere else to go. After all, she realized just as well as he did what the hell was in store for the both of them.

So he reached and put an arm around her, pulling her toward him, and he was surprised when she shifted her weight and very nearly dropped into his lap as she moved to curl into him. She was seeking out comfort. Any comfort would do, even if it came from Merle.

"We're really not that damn different after all," Merle said, "Lotta damn good _charming_ did your ass."

As soon as he said it, though, he almost wished he could take it back. If she'd been holding back the tears at all, she stopped entirely at his words. She shook against him, giving way completely to the emotions that were drowning her. He wasn't sure if she was crying for herself, crying for him, or crying for all the fuck ups that the two of them, together, had managed to complete in such a short amount of time.

Each of them, not really very different at all, had thought they might be something like superheroes. They'd thought they might save the world. At the very least, they'd thought they'd save the lives of a bunch of people who wouldn't even come for them—her ex-girlfriend and his baby brother among them—because they couldn't see fit to forgive them of their sins. Their sins, of course, having been nothing more than not realizing that the wolf wasn't just a wolf—he was really the Biggest of the Bad Wolves, and he'd stop at absolutely nothing.

Merle swallowed, his own saliva sticking in his quickly drying throat. He blamed it on the heat in the barn. He blamed it on dehydration. He blamed it on the raw feeling that had come from the last truths he'd yelled at the man who had him put in the barn by others because he was too chicken shit to do it himself. The man that would shoot him because he wouldn't have the balls to try to end his life fairly—he'd have to do it in such a way as to guarantee that he couldn't be overtaken. And he could be easily overtaken.

He wouldn't have even done to Andrea what he'd done, in person, if he hadn't been able to take her by surprised and overpower her before she knew what was happening. He wouldn't have done it without the assistance of the ropes and chains that her wrists bore evidence of having worn during a struggle that took place only hours before.

The woman, sitting on the dirty floor of the barn, snotting on Merle's shirt bore very little resemblance to the woman who had, more than likely, fought like hell through the man's twisted games with her. It looked like he'd done what he'd tried to do. He'd broken her.

It looked like that, of course, but Merle didn't believe it could quite be true.

He patted her, carefully because he had no idea the extent of the injuries that she was hiding, with his hand and considered what they might do. The reality of the situation was that they were alone in the barn. They had no weapons. The only thing that might even constitute a weapon, and it was a poor one, was the metal cuff that Merle wore on his arm. They hadn't thought to take the whole thing off. They'd removed the bayonet, but they wouldn't take the cuff because the nub seemed to strike terror in everyone—as if sawing off your hand to escape handcuffs was, somehow, contagious.

When the Governor came? He'd probably open the door of the barn, gun in hand, and have some short speech prepared for the both of them. He'd want to send them to their graves feeling as bad as he possibly could. Then he'd shoot them—one at a time—and he'd leave them to die. Merle wasn't even sure if he'd try to hide what he'd done, put them down, and bury them in secret or if he'd march their turned corpses out to the center of Woodbury to show everyone what the hell happened when you were a terrible person who tried to undermine such a benevolent despot.

One way or another, though, he was going to kill them and he was going to do it quickly and from a distance.

Still—if they were going down? Either one of them, and especially after what they'd already been through? They weren't going down like this. They weren't going down pathetic and sitting, asses in the dirt, in a tin barn. They weren't going to roll over and go without a fight. At the very least, they'd die knowing that they never gave up.

Merle gritted his teeth.

"Get the hell up, Blondie," Merle said, the bite coming out in his words that he had hoped would make their appearance there. "Let's go," he said, realizing that his words had at least worked to shock her into ceasing the crying, even if she wasn't saying anything or wrestling herself to her feet. "Get your ass up. We don't have time to waste."

Andrea pulled away from him. Her face wore the evidence of her tears, but they'd been stopped in their tracks. She looked like she couldn't decide if she was angry for the interruption or confused by Merle's outburst. Either of the emotions would do. Either was preferable to the wallowing that had been taking place moments before.

"Time for what, Merle?" Andrea asked, some bite in her own voice. She shook her head at him. "He's coming back to kill us."

Merle hummed, biting the inside of his mouth not to be amused at the fact that he had her right where he wanted her and she didn't even seem to realize it.

"That's what he's thinking," Merle said. "But—I got another idea. I'm not quite ready to die just yet. You help me? We're both making it outta here."

"And then what?" Andrea asked. "We ride off into the sunset together?"

Merle snorted. She didn't have to say that she didn't believe him. He could tell. The truth was that he wasn't sure he even believed himself. Still, it was worth a try.

"Don't give a shit," Merle said. "You do what the hell you wanna do. But—I get us outta this damn barn? _We_ get outta this damn barn? I ain't never gonna have to ask you again why the hell we ain't hooked up. We gotta damn deal?"

Andrea furrowed her brow at him, but she was shifting. She was moving around. She was gathering herself up because the possibility of a fight and the feeling of having something to fight for was coming to her. It was rallying her back to her senses.

"What are you going to do, Merle? We don't—stand a chance..." Andrea said.

That wasn't what he wanted to hear and he shook his head at her to let that be known even without having to say it.

"Weren't what the hell I asked," Merle said. "We got a damn deal or not?"

Andrea looked trapped between horrified and intrigued. He'd take it. Horrified now was OK as long as intrigued won over in the long run. It wouldn't be the first time in his life he'd seen that transformation take place in a woman.

"You want me to—sleep with you?" Andrea asked.

Merle hummed and then he laughed.

"I was talkin' about fuckin'," Merle said. "Reckon the sleeping goes with the riding off into the damn sunset. That's up to your ass—after we get the hell outta here. But if you got better options...obligations? Ain't makin' you do no shit you don't wanna do."

Merle got up, hiding the fact that he was stiff and sore from the fight he'd been in earlier. He looked down at Andrea, sitting there and staring at him. She looked at the ground a moment, contemplating the whole thing, and Merle laughed to himself again.

"Listen," he said. "I weren't serious. You don't gotta fuck me just because you live. Hell it was a fuckin' joke, but I can see he cut your damn sense of humor out or something. You don't gotta fuck me. Don't gotta run away with me. But—you do gotta get your ass outta the damn dirt because if we don't work together? Neither of us is getting outta here. I'm counting on you—don't let me down."

She looked at him again and this time she stretched a hand out to him. He took it and helped her get to her feet.

"Let's hear what you've got to say," Andrea said, a slight smile playing at her lips. "It better be good. There's a lot riding on this."

Merle hated to admit that he had relatively little to offer her, but this wasn't really about the idea and if it would work. This was about whether or not they believed it would work. It was about the attitude and the feeling. After all, it may very well be the last feeling either of them ever had.

He winked at her, determined to enjoy the last rush of adrenaline if nothing else.

"That's alright, sugar tits," Merle said. "Just as long as you the one doin' the riding."


End file.
